
Class 

Book / hi / ^ c^ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 



LIFE PICTURES 

AND OTHER THOUGHTS 



EUGENE BROWN 



COPVRlaMTBO 1912 

EUGENE BROWN 

PEORIA, II.L., 






THE BROWN RHYMES PUBLISHING HOUSE 

PEOBIA, ILLINOIS 




PRESS OP 

NIXON PRINTING CO. 

PEORIA, ILL. 



^CLA3125?1 



5Pr^far?< 



In this, the Author's second publication, he 
still adheres to the original principle, **not for 
pecuniary profit," and presents this book as a 
method of preserving these original thoughts 
in the libraries of the Brown family, and others 
who may be interested. 



(BtitiUtxtB. 

PAGE 

Just How It Was 1 

The Used Auto 3 

Fall Days 5 

Ode To The Pumpkin Pie 6 

Christmas, (1905) 7 

Live As You Go Along 9 

Over At The Old House 11 

This Means You. 14 

Life's Question 16 

Keep Out With Dog And Gun 17 

My Prayer 18 



JttBt f nht Hit WuB, 



Possibly some of you have met one of those 
characters, famous for relating incidents, but very 
poor hands at remembering the exact particulars, 
and keeping the listeners on needles, as it were, by 
arguing as to just the exact truth of the minor 
particulars, when really that has no direct bearing 
upon the point of the incident. Possibly it will 
help you to recall some such characters in your 
own acquaintance, when I tell you about one whom 
I met, and his relating of an incident ran something 
like this: 



I had the darn'dest jamboree 

Last Wednesday night. No, let me see? 

Oh, Thursday night, it was, I guess, — 

Or was it Wednesday? Yes, — No, — Yes, 

Last Thursday night — but could it be? 

Now, wait a minute — let — me — see — 

Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday night — 

Yes, Wednesday evenin', that there's right. 

Well, what I was a goin' to say: 

Con sarn it all, I've lost a day. 

Last Wednesday night, as sure as fate, 

Just in the evenin' — 'twasn't late — , 

I met Gus Black, — or was it Joe? 

No, Gus. Well, darn it, I don't know. 



I've know'd them twins fer twenty years. 

An' Joe's the one with loppy ears. 

Or is it Gus? No, that can't be, 

'Cause Gus, I guess he don't know me. 

Hold on, hold on, it is Gus, now. 

I'm plumb gee-twisted. Anyhow, 

I met him there on Adams street, 

Perched high up on his wagon seat. 

Or was he in a buggy? — Yes, 

The wagon's what it was, I guess. 

Well, 'taint no matter anyhow, 

We simply jest got in a row. 

An' he'll know me next time we meet. 

I knocked him plumb clean off his feet. 

'Twas Thursday night, I know it now, 

An' all because he let his sow 

Run through my yard an' break the gates. 

I always did git mixed on dates. 



The thing that you think you can do is more 
than half done when you start. 



If you have never done anything for yourself, 
then you are either a coward or a ne'er-do-well, or 
else you'd better start now. 



®1|^ ai0Fb Attto. 



Some of you may have had experience with 
automobiles. The driver is generally in fear of 
something happening to the engine. In the south 
one day I sat on the rear seat of an antiquated auto 
and overheard the following conversation on the 
front seat: 



Hear that? Hear that? Now, wait a bit, I'll speed'er 

up and see. 
Can't you hear that from where you sit? It don't 

sound good to me. 
Now listen. Hear it? There! Hear that? That 

click. That there haint right. 
I can't quite tell just where it's at. That hood aint 

very tight. 
Now, there it goes, the chain, I guess, a hittin' on 

th' guard. 
It always rattles more or less. She's puffin' pretty 

hard. 
I'll tell you what, it's too much juice. She's got to 

have more air. 
No, that aint it, your muffler's loose. By gosh, I 

can't tell where 
That noise is comin' from and yet — she's quit that 

puffin' now. 
It's in yer mixer. Bill, I'll bet, and still, I can't s^e 

how — 



That pump ain't workin' like it should. I fixed it 

ip last night. 
By gosh, I bet it's in th' hood. These cars would 

make me fight. 
Now listen when I throw the gear— it sounds some 

better there. 
Let's stop at this garage right here and try a bit 

more air. 
Oh, darn the carburetter. No! I'll run 'er till she 

quits. 
Now listen when I run 'er slow. That furthest 

valve there spits. 
By hek, I guess she's got 'er gait. Throw up yer 

spark a bit. 
If I get home to dinner late, my wife'll have a fit. 
Oh, darn yer wife — ^hear that again? The darned 

thing's gettin' worse. 
I thought I shot a tire then. Excuse me if I curse. 
Just listen at the bloody thing. It's shootin' pretty 

well. 
It sounds a little like a spring. Be hanged if I 

can tell. 
Say, Bill, I know, the sparker's off. You'd better 

let me drive. 
The sparker, Hell. Just hear 'er cough. You think 

I haint alive? 
The darned connectin' rod is broke, by gosh, I'll 

bet a dime. 

Say, Bill, this car sure is a joke. Well, 'bye, I'm 
home on time. 



3taU iajjH. 



Now himtin's no fun on a sticky, hot day 

But, take it, along when the sky is grey — 

The branches get cleaned up enough to see through — 

The squirrel thinks he's hid — cause he can't see you. 

A feller kin go fer a half a day's roam 
An' feel good an' hungry again' he gits home — 
I tell you the change puts new life in yer veins — 
An' then, take it late in the fall, when it rains, 

An' all out o' doors there's a kind of a fog 
By gosh, you kin crawl in an' sleep like a log — 
It's good days fer taters — eat jackets an' all. 
Nobody kin help kind o' likin' the fall. 

When it's kind o' uncomfortable out o' doors 
An' we hustle around with the evening chores — 
When the leaves on the ground seem to race to and 

fro 
An' the smoke from the fire wood kind o' hangs low. 

There's lots of good walnuts to dry on the shed 
An' plenty of kivvers to slip on the bed — 
The cold wind comes by with its usual pang 
The barn door blows shut with the very same "bang." 

The summer is gone, bat the branches aglow 
Are plenty to pay us for letting it go. 
The new, cooler nights with the hot chicken pie 
Pay up for the long summer season gone by. 

So bring in some cider an' pop some more corn 
An' get out the fiddle, an' Joe, get yer horn 
An' Bess at the organ, an' Babe on the comb — 
Crowd up close together an' play "Home, Sweet 
Home." 



m^ ®o ®lj? ittmtrkttt Pif. 



Peoria, 111., Feb. 20, '04. 
Dear Cousin George: — 

I have never answered your letter because I was 
waiting for the spirit to move me, so I could answer 
it after the style of your request. I just came from 
a 3c lunch counter with my stomach full, therefore 
I do not think the following is as appetizing as it 
otherwise might have been made, but I give it to 
you now, and dedicate it to you "without permis- 
sion." You will find it the greatest "I opener" that 
ever came "through the tube." Believe me when I 
tell you that I opened fourteen kegs of "I's" in 
order to pick out enough words ending with the 
vowel sound of "I'' to build up the rhyme. If you 
will sit down and attempt to "put up" some short 
meter with any certain vowel sound at the end of 
each line, you'll be surprised how soon you'll run 
out of "soap.'' Here she goes: 

When the winds begin to sigh, 

Like the winter's gettin' nigh; 

When the geese are flyin' high 

To the south, across the sky; 

When the frost is on the rye, 

An' the corn is stacked up high; 

When the fields are kind o' dry. 

An' the crop is all laid by; 

When the Sap Suck has to pry 

In the wood, to get a fly; 

When the Bob White whistles sly, 

An' there comes a faint reply; 

When the cotton-tail is spry, 

Lest the hunter catch his eye; 

When the waivin' trees imply 

That the year is goin' to die. 

An' you don't know, hardly, why. 

But you kind o' want to cry — 

There is just one thing that's shy, 

All our hearts to satisfy. 

'Tis a good big Pumpkin Pie. 

All in favor, please say "Aye." 

Good-bye. 



OIIjnBtmaa, 1305. 



O, Merry, Merry Christmas, what truly does it mean? 

A day of gifts from you to me, and Holly, red and 
green? 

A holiday for little folks with Santa Glaus, so gay? 

Is this the purport, do you think, of this eventful day? 

A day of dancing sugar-plnms, of Christmas trees, 
and song? 

Can we endorse it, after all, or must we call it 
wrong 

When some exchange their tokens rare, and others 
want for bread — 

When some are scarcely in the race, while others 
forge ahead? 

A birthday of the Christ of old, whom we have 
never seen? 

So mythical to us today, two thousand years be- 
tween ? 

What then shall we, who live today, find good in 
Christmas tide? 

Or, shall we call it 'Holiday' and venture naught be- 
side? 

Ah, no, there's millions bundled up in this electric 
phrase 

From childhood's Christmas stocking time to old, 
declining days — 



There's such a world ef earthly good each one of us 
could do 

That Christmas is a lesson leaf, each year, for me 
and you. 

Association is the gift that money cannot buy. 

It stills the heart that often longs, and dries the 
tearful eye. 

So, get together now and then, and call your neigh- 
bors in 

And have a Christmas every week and think what 
fools we've been 

To go along in doubt and fear and much too often 
weep 

When gifts are not a requisite and cheering words 
so cheap. 

Let's make a resolution, then, for t as the coming 
year 

To have a Christmas every day and let us never hear 

A single word from any Brown to shake the Christ- 
mas tree. 

The vote's unanimous, I know — so let it always be. 



People are much like chickens, once one is 
sick, or down, the others pick it to death. 



Many a great work could have been hastened 
by the people who looked on. 



Envy is about the worst curse to mankind. 



lUte Afl lo« Clfl Almt9. 



There's a somethin' in my makin' 
That perhaps is all my own, 
'Tis a liberty I'm takin' 
Just to see if I'm alone. 

Did you ever hate the present, 
Get disgusted with your lot 
When your duty wasn't pleasant. 
Or the weather cold, or hot? 

Have you caught yourself a wishin' 
That the workin' time was o'er, 
That you just could go a fishin' 
For a week or two, or more? 

Has your think tank ever told you 
That there's better times ahead 
When your mother had to scold you, 
Had to send you off to bed? 

Have you ever wished the hours 
On the clock would hurry by 
To the day in sunny bowers 
With perpetual blue sky? 

Have you ever thought you'd hurry 
'Till you got the work all done 
So you wouldn't have to worry. 
But could simply live on fun? 



If you did, there's nothin' in it. 
Better try another way. 
Have your fun this very minute 
Lest the world should end today. 

Live the now and dash the morrow 
Keep it new, with all its joy. 
Never let a coming sorrow 
Any other soul annoy. 

Watch the hand that's on the throttle 
"leep the other out of sight, 
Put your troubles in a bottle 
And be sure the cork is tight. 

Keep a thinkin', keep a sayin' 
That you'll mix your work with play 
And remember that you're payin' 
For the things you shirk today. 

Don't be lookin' for the turnin' 
When your life will be a dream. 
Keep the fires ever burnin' 
For we're driftin' down the stream. 



The man in a class by himself is the one who 
holds and merits the confidence of his community. 



If you want to be happy, get satisfied with your 
lot and then gradually improve it. 



Every man either earns his monetary success, 
or else pays dearly for it. 



10 



dwr At Ei\t mh f nwH?. 



These verses were written for our immediate 
family, and in some respects may not mean so much 
to all of my readers, but some of the verses will tit 
you all. 

Sometimes I think, as I sit alone, 

Of the days when childhood was all my own. 

Of the fun we had in the big back lot, 

When the snow was cold, or the sun was hot, 

A watchful eye on each little tot, 

Over at the Old House. 

I think of the closet, up in front. 

Where we used to rummage and fish and hunt, 

The watch-maker's tools, and the cubby hole, 

And then I think of the turning pole, 

And the terrace in front, where we used to roll, 

Over at the Old House. 

I think of the summer kitchen there, 
Where Pap would tinker and we would stare. 
The old red sleigh with the shingle nail. 
The rosin that boiled on the side fence rail 
And how John Onyun carried the mail. 
Over at the Old House. 

How the crust slid under the cellar door, 
And the rainy day sleds wore out the floor. 
How we ate in the kitchen at wash day times. 
How we sat on a chair for childish crimes. 
How I drank hard cider with Harry Himes, 
Over at the Old House. 



And again I think of the buggy shed, 
And the stalls where Filly and Dick were fed, 
How we welcomed the sound of the big barn door, 
And knew that Pap was home from the store, 
I'd like to go through those days once more, 
Over at the Old House, 

I often think of the dinner bell, 

Whose sound the whole prairie knew so well. 

The pantry off from the kitchen there, 

Where mother made cookies, oh, so rare. 

Always enough, but none to spare. 

Over at the Old House. 

The mother goose songs that we used to sing, 

The pop corn ball that hung by a string, 

I often think of the parlor, too, 

The curiosities, more than few. 

And just how the organ looked, do you? 

Over at the Old House. 

Remember the coasting on White street hill? 
With many a slip and often a spill? 
How they would come from far and near, 
Even at night when the sky was clear, 
"Bring out the G" I seem to hear. 
Over at the Old House. 

Remember the ditch in the lot next door? 
How we made furnaces there galore? 
How we would scamper and tumble and climb? 
Think of the fun we could have for a dime. 
Then how we bellowed at Dancing School time, 
Over the Old House. 



12 



Two of us, seems to me, Edna and Ted, 
Slept with an eighteen inch board in the bed. 
How we took turns at the same old red quilt. 
Don't you remember the mantel Pap built, 
Also the box of face powder Ted spilt. 
Over at the Old House. 

Often I think of the old street light 
The magic lantern shows every night. 
Also the Silver leaf, fanned by the breeze, 
Well you remember the hives and the bees, 
Bright days were those in the big cheery trees. 
Over at the Old House. 

Remember the "Authors'' we used to play 
When Scarlet Fever was holding sway? 
The "Palsom of Life" and all the rest. 
Remember the dolls that Ida dressed? 
And weren't the rats an awful pest, 
Over at the Old House. 

The Sunday hair cuts we all went through. 
The clippers would pull till your face was blue. 
The flying dutchman you can't forget, 
Where many a time we got up-set. 
I fancy I see it whirling yet. 
Over at the Old House. 

And yet we go onward to each morning sun. 
Waiting the day when we'll have lots of fun. 
Boys, it's no use, we might just as well say: 
I'm goin' to try to have fun every day, 
Thinking with joy of the past, on the way, 
Over at the Old House. 



13 



^i^xs Mmnsi f siu. 



I took the town directory from off the office shelf 

To try and find a person who was just his own plain 
self. 

I read the list of all my friends and people that I 
knew 

And every blessed one of them — well — this is what 
they do: 

The chambermaid would like to be the lady in the 
room, 

The best man at the wedding, he would like to be 
the groom. 

The woman in the purple dress is bound to want the 
drab. 

The cabman tries to imitate the fellow in the cab. 

If Mrs. Jones talks English, w'y her maid talks Eng- 
lish, too, 

And if she gets a new blue hat, the hired girl's is 
blue. 

The speaker on the platform tries to imitate the 
Gov. 

The kid takes off the actor, when he starts in mak- 
ing love. 

The preacher apes the doctor and the bell boy apes 
the swell, 



14 



The darkie apes the whole darn'd bunch and does it 

mighty well. 
The lady at the party tries to walk like Mrs. High, 
The way they spuldge and mimic makes me giggle 

fit to die. 
The dasher in the ball room holds his arm just like 

his friend, 
The girl that's dancing with him tries to do the 

Greecian bend. 
It's so, clear down the ladder, yes, and up again, 

and down. 
From star to souper on the stage, from circus King 

to clown 
There's not a single one that tries to be himself 

alone, 

But all reach out to pinch some little trick that's not 
their own. 

They try to talk some foolish way, or use some cer- 
tain word 

That they pick up from someone else, in just the 
common herd. 

And so we have to take it all — there's nothing we 
can do 

Because we find that, now and then, we do the mon- 
key, too. 



Let's eat a bit, and leave the rest. The one who 
follows smacks the best. 



If you know you are right, your enemies won't 
give you much worry. 



15 



ICtf**B (^ntBtian. 



Wondering, thinking, our lives wend their way, 
Far toward the future our hearts, day by day. 
Hateful at intervals, often times sad, 
Sometimes too sorrowful, sometimes too glad. 
Hoping in futures, or living in past; 
Sailing from Summer to Winter's cold blast. 
Striving together for weel or for woe 
Sipping the bitter with sweets, as we go. 

Seeing some good and a moral with all. 
Building up towers to see each one fall 
Gathering knowledge to leave it behind 
Carving our names in whatever we find. 
Lofty air pictures and castles immense 
Grass always greenest beyond the line fence. 

Hope everlasting and future not gone. 
Whither and when will the curtain be drawn. 
Thus we are thankful for things we don't see. 
Something to wonder for — something to be. 
None can compare with this wonderful wall 
This to be thankful for once and for all. 



16 



2Ce^p Wut Wxtk iag Knh (gun. 



You'll have to git right out o' here, no huntin' on 

this place. 
You can't tell me you didn't see that sign right 'fore 

yer face. 
We jest arrested 2 er 3 fer huntin' on these grounds, 
I'd like to know, though, where ye got them pretty 

Beagle hounds. 
That young one there looks like he's built of first 

class bang up stock. 
Ye see, the old man made the rule, an' he's as firm 

as rock. 
No, boys, yer whiskey won't buy me, you'll have to 

climb the wire. 
By gol, that houn's a pretty head, I'll bet he's full o' 

fire. 
By gol, I wish the boss was here, he's sick a bed, ye 

know. 
If this wan't Sunday I'd jest like to see that pup 

there go. 
By gum, you've got a handsome gun, an' say, she's 

balanced slick. 
I tell you what you do, now, boys, jest skin across 

the crick. 
An' skirt aroun' that timber there, up near that 

there south lot, 
I bet you'll start a cotton-tail, I almost know the 

spot. 
Con sarn it all, jest wait a bit, my gun's up in the 

barn. 

The old man's deaf, an' if he hears, well, — I don't 

give a darn. 
We'll jest skin out an' get a few, I'm stuck on that 

there pup. 
You fellers start along. I'll get my gun, an' I'll 

ketch up. 



M^ Jprag^r. 



0, Thou Supreme Power and Guide, hearken un- 
to this reverence: 

I thank Thee for the possibilties which Thou 
hast placed around me. 

I hope that I may so conduct myself as to be 
a creditable factor in my community. 

I trust that Thine existence shall be so present- 
ed to the iniquitous that they shall see of Thee. 

I rejoice that Thy presence is enjoyable by all 
the universe, and that man is the strength which 
shapes his own destiny. Glory be to the Factor 
which allows to man this liberal privilege. 

I regret that sometimes fate will temporarily 
outdo Thy best intentions, but rejoice in the know- 
ledge that Right and Justice tower above even Fate, 
and that I can be right, and thus take advantage of 
all the impetus with which Thine own existence has 
surrounded me, and thus I go on, with the highest 
speed, to the greatest goal intended for Man. 

Amen. 



IS 



A wise man who can see good in others is bound 
to absorb some of it. 

It isn't always the sharpest ones who perform 
their world work best. 

Many a dollar has slipped trying to cinch the 
last one. 

If you are honest, that's a "trade" which will 
go far toward supporting a big family. 

If your pride is in your pocket, I'll know there's 
ready cash with it. 

He who can keep a secret will find more valu- 
able things coming into his keeping. 

If you like a person, you can let him know 
without telling it, and he'll like you. 

There are no servants. It's just a great army, 
and as the battle goes on, each rises to the rank 
where he belongs. 

If every earthly wish of yours would just come 
true, just that, my friend, would be my earnest 
wish for you. 

He who is careless about following orders would 
never suit me for a General. 

Many are the worldly men not prone 

To stand aloft and say their soul's their own. 

After all, facts make the best stories. 

Truth and evolution. Everybody believes that. 



19 



APR 17 1912 



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